My friends are on the road again and it feels like it’s their last trip. They’re crossing borders and forever stealing cars.
They drink cheap bear and act angelically, these modern saints. They listen to tall black skinny musicians blowing and tapping their feet, oh, the madness of jazzheads all over America.
They want to feel the very end of America and to thoroughly step beyond it.
This shirt of mine reminds me that I once promised myself to never stop being a boy as well. A naive and sweaty one like Dean Moriarty. Sometimes I think of Hemingway when I wear it or even Hunter S. Thompson. How they were all out of America at some point, drinking themselves to death and hearing beautiful, dark haired girls chime in Spanish. It reminds me of summer and dust, of children playing in the streets of old forgotten villages in South America or Spain.
pictures made by Ionut
wallet compulsively bought this spring from Pull & Bear
the title is a quote from Holy Kerouac